I love the fact that most of our random hits come from people looking for porn. No, we do not have naked pictures of the olsen twins, nor anything related to domination or submission. But thank you for stopping by. Pervert.

Got so bored today, I started searching around looking at other people’s blogs. This one was the only one I liked: http://queryletters.blogspot.com/We are by far the coolest.

A) We are older. Most blogs started in like, 2004. Lightweights.

2) We update more frequently than like, everyone. This may be because of our numbers, but it’s still amazing.

iii) We are (as an average of our combined attractiveness) much hotter than most other bloggers. What I am saying is, if you are really ugly and have kids, or if you are one of those very sad geeky-gay-men-whose-presence-seems-filled-with-uncertainty, you should not have a blog. You are weak. Also, I hate animals and pink, and girls need to stop incorporating both into their entries.

People keep picking me up and making me do things with them. While I’m completely flattered that people are overlooking my ballooning weight and shrinking sense of verbal propriety, I still have a job, and responsibilities, and keeping me out until midnight makes me a complete mess. Because I’m old, and I’m a fag. If I don’t get 10 hours of sleep, I’m a loser for most of the day. First there was something Monday with like, Erin, I think. Then Tuesday Erin and I went to see a movie and bought Drumstick Ice Cream bars from a grocery store and placed the two extra ones that came in the box on the handles of an SUV, then Wednesday Bonnie calls me while I’m shopping at Costco with the fam, and Bonnie and is all “you know Alejandra’s doing a show with her improv group” and I’m all, “awww man tonight’s ‘brat camp’” but in my head I’m all, “nigga, you really want to be that cat who doesn’t see a high school friend because you want to watch reality TV?” and I thought that even I am not that pathetic so I take a shower and run over to Alan’s house and then Bonnie and Alan drive me down to the Comedy Sportz place and I thought, oh yay, anne and I once went and saw comedy sportz once in Chicago with Russell and this really boring swiss guy, and that night was fun, so maybe this night’ll be fun, but outside of the sexy half-japanese bartender in a Stooges shirt, the night wasn’t so hot because it was an all ages show which meant anything inappropriate invoked the brown-bag-over-the-head, and the best jokes are usually bad jokes so the rest of the night was filled with bad good jokes instead of good bad jokes, though I did laugh at the two brown-bag-winning comments of the evening, one involving injuns and the other scabies. And Alejandra was as cute as ever, and oh my gosh was I kind of freaked out to hear she dated the lead singer of some up-and-coming Louisiana band who’s actually famous and why can’t I remember the name of his band? Oh well. The evening ended in me eating a spicy chicken sandwich and Bonnie confiding that Monica’s wedding might actually be nice. Tonight is my aunt barbara’s birthday so I think I have to go out as well. In the words of geico, “I just want to make an omlette!” Though I don’t want to make an omlette. I want chocolate covered pretzels, which you may all be surprised to know, they do not sell at Kroger.

Chad is in town. He is very much a spaz. He and Margaret spend most of the day hidden doing things I would like to do with that half-japanese bartender.

Oh, and I called her. We’re going out tomorrow. And now of course, as is typical, I do all this work in tracking her down, in calling her up, arranging a date, and now I don’t want to go and am looking for excuses not to. I’m like Fred Savage from the “Wonder Years”—only without residual charm.

And Steven, you know I love you. You are a little bit pretentious, fabulously educated, hot, a bit of a slut, tall, and fabulous with lentils. And while I enjoy your sense of justice in calling out people where you think they’ve gone wrong, you need to be nicer to the. He’s our baby, and we love him, and he’s quite delicate.

I hate summer. Unless you’re in school and get summer of for vacay, it’s just three months of slow economic growth, bored friends, rereuns, murky heat, and much hotter women in halter-tops.

While I rarely comment on I Am a Lame Person, I do check it every day...and I hear there are drugs on the market now which are extremely successful at prolonging the lives of those afflicted with AIDS...you could probably get them in Canada for cheap...and the Canadian legal age of consent is just 14 - so you could make a proper holiday of it!!

Theron:
Your "one person" who comments is undoubtedly at least two. Lakshmi and I both comment anonymously and rarely sign our names. While there are many similarities between L. and I (we both have great hair, sharp wits and yes, Lakshmi, killer bodies) I assure you that we are different people. And both of us are addicted to "I am a lame person." Just thought you should know.

P.S. I have stolen your "hipster coke slut" description of American Apparel models. People crack up at that shit, because it's so so true.

The blog world is huge. Like, really big. And most of it is filled with losers like me who write about the mundane details of everyday life in a way that is neither particularly engrossing nor insightful. Yet despite the huge numbers of bloggers whining about ever conceivable subject, there are two crucial developments in society lately that are both troubling and heartbreaking, and yet the blog world remains silent on both accounts.

I am speaking of course, of the new Egg McMuffin and Catherine Zata Jones’s face lift.

I’ve tried google, yahoo, technorati, plugging in any combination of “horrible + new +Canadian Bacon+ McDonalds + Egg + McMuffin” and “scary + weird + plastic surgery + brow + eye + lift+ Catherine Zeta Jones” and nothing is coming up anywhere. These issues have been weighing very much on my mind recently, and I’ve been looking for other online sympathizers, but nary a word.

What is the nature of the crisis, you ask? Well, several things. Let’s start with the Egg McMuffin, since that is probably the most upsetting development in my life thus far.

My love of Egg Mcmuffin’s goes back to junior high, where my mom would stop at mcdonalds on the way to school since we had no time for breakfast. The sandwich is nothing short of genius—egg’s benedict without the hollandaise—and I developed an addiction to “the number one”: that lovely combination of hash brown, coke, and McMuff. As I’ve gotten older, it’s been difficult for me to truly have a good day without this breakfast staple. I had to wean myself off them in college for variety of reasons (poverty, inconvenience, Evanston refusing to renew MickeyD’s lease), but now that I’m living at home in a state of misery, this golden meal is the only reason I get out of bed in the morning. Sure, I’ve taken a lot of flack for my love. All of my friends from high school were either pretentious art house fags (oh, how I love them) or very clean and proper rich girls, and these are two groups that don’t really embrace the breakfast sandwich. Same thing in college—people look down on me for my low brow eating habits. But guess what (cue Cartman voice)—screw you guys, eh do what eh want.

So imagine my horror of going for my usual breakfast, taking a bite, and discovering that the normally light and subtle Canadian Bacon that usually graces my sandwich tasted rancid. It was like Spam—sickly sweet, rancid, grotesque, sticky even. I walk up and ask Elvis (the manager)—dude, what the frick is wrong with your ham? He’s all, “Are you enjoying the new ‘enhanced smoky flavor’ of the Canadian Bacon?” and (as I am on a first name basis with all McD’s employees) I shot back, “G, whatch you thinking? This tastes like old cat” and he kind of laughs and says that this is the stuff McDonalds has been sending them. So the next day I go to the McDonalds on Beltline. Still rancid. The next day, it’s the McDonalds on Park—it still tastes weird and creepy. I don’t know if this is a Dallas Thing, or a nationwide thing, so I go online and check websites—even the McDonalds official website—and no one has anything to say on this phenomenon. So I submit, as an open plea to my niggas with dirt on their shoulders—will you brush it off for me? Will you condescend to try one wherever you are and let me know if I have to write a letter to the McDonalds Corporation? Because I will. I will go WTO Greenpeace bombings in that joint. Don’t f with my sandmiches.

Why you hit me Charlie Murphy?

The other source of perpetual vexation is that no one is calling Catherine Zeta Jones out on the horrendous plastic surgery she’s displaying in the latest T-Mobile ads. Let us review:
Old CZJ:
White Skin
Gently arched eyebrows: --- --- shape
Small, almond shaped, Marilyn Monroe eyes.
Facial expressions

New CZJ:
Orange skin
Eyebrows like v’s: \ / shape
Wider eyes that slant upwards
Perpetual surprise

It’s awful. And no one seems to notice! I’ll ask friends, and they’ll see it, but not one tabloid is reporting it, no one’s blogging about it, and that makes me angry. If we don’t ridicule celebrities for horrible facial hacking, how will they ever learn? She’s like a grotesque kabuki mask. Whatever eye lift, brow lift, botoxing she did, she needs to sue. Now granted, I never thought Catherine Zeta Jones was all that hot, but she had a unique, exotic face, and really, what was she thinking? “I look quite lovely and foreign. I am remarkably fit—I look ageless. Why not pull up my eyes so I can look like an angry asian cat?”

Nickd has been responsible for some phenomonal links lately. The USA map was taken from a blog where a guy asks his racist aunt to redraw and/or explain the US as she sees it.

The lower photo is, of course, because I am part of that 18%

Steve was a hot guy that tried to pick up Mary when she was working in the library. He was also a member of SuperSportif, the band that used to put on spontaneous outdoor shows at NU.

At least I think that's the Steven we're talking about.

OK, so my weekend was eventful in the extreme. I caused a very minor car accident (it was the world's most gentle tap of bumpers, but still really uncool). And my brother came to town for Lollapalooza.

Lollapalooza was awesome despite the killer heat on Sunday (103 degrees!). I really haven't heard a negative word about it from anyone who went. The performances were rad, and it was well organized and orchestrated -- short lines for free water, every show starting on time. Bob and I had a great time. Best things we saw: Blonde Redhead, Pixies, Weezer, Dinosaur Jr. and Arcade Fire.

So the Pixies were great -- but you've come to expect that from them. They played a comprehensive set list, including a lot of songs from C'Mon Pilgrim. Kim Deal was of course funny/ cute/ badass like only she can be. "Hey," "In Heaven," "Nimrod's Son" and "Vamos" were my personal highlights. We had a great view and the weather was beautiful.

Weezer was surprisingly undisappointing. I thought I'd be content to stand in the back and just listen for a bit, but as soon as I heard the first part of "Say It Ain't So" I started pushing up closer. They played "Why Bother" and "El Scorcho" from Pinkerton. The Blue album songs resonated perfectly through the summer evening. That sounds cheesy, but do you know what I mean? Since middle school that has been the perfect album for any outdoor summer party. And hearing those songs in 2005 just made me giddy. I noticed something really weird though: there were a lot of people in the crowd who'd never heard the Blue album-- their first brush w/ Weezer was definitely "Hash Pipe." And that confused me, because I thought the Blue album was very much more popular than Green ever got. And I almost feel old. But anyway, Rivers was weirdly funny and sweet and talkative on stage. Stupid Weezer. God do I hate them.

So seriously, anyone who knows me has to know what an intense time I had seeing The Pixies and Weezer back-to-back like that, right? Especially after my unhealthy obsessive phases and all. So it should have extra resonance when I say that the Arcade Fire was indisputably the highlight of the weekend. Régine Chassagne is hands down the most mesmerizing performer I have ever seen. absolutely inspired. I know you've all read reviews of their live shows. They really can't do this band's performance justice. It wasn't corny. It was perfectly uplifting and satisfying. Even in the sweltering heat, jostling with dumb blonde girls, it was one of the most enjoyable shows I've ever seen. During the last song, "Rebellion (Lies)" Win Butler left the stage, tossed his mic stand into the crowd, wandered down the center aisle and never came back. Wow.

Outside of that, I ate a lot of good food and kept the substance use/abuse to a minimum. Also saw "Wedding Crashers" at Bob's behest. It was awful and long. Went to the Field Museum monday, and looked at all the animals. It was so wacky.

It's cheaper to fly (costs of airport transfers INCLUDED) from Nottingham to Edinburgh than it is to take the train. And the train takes 4.5 hours to the plane's 1. AND that's including the 1/3 student discount I get on train tickets. *ridiculous* Why take the bloody train if it's less convenient AND more expensive than a lovely airplane. And the last time I took that train, I was stuck in the same car as a terribly-behaved family of chavs, whose travel plans consisted of noisily riding the train from Newcastle to Manchester, and then having a family dinner at McDonald's. :-/

But I'm not really wanting to travel right now anyway...what with having missed the London attacks by about two weeks and the Egypt attacks by a month. I wasn't all that affected by 9/11, because I had no connection to New York: didn't know anyone there, had never been myself, had no desire to visit, etc. But I know people in London and Egypt, and I've been to both...recently. And that makes these attacks much scarier to me than 9/11 was. A significant number of my acquaintances in Britain are in and out of London on a regular basis. I generally try to avoid the City myself - because it's too big and too dirty for my taste - but I've still been three times since March.

blah blah blah. blub blub blub. I'm tired. And HilaryDuff is dating JoelMadden?!? *sketch* That said, in how many other Western countries is the age of consent 18 (as opposed to something slightly more reasonable, like 16)? I don't know, and I'm not going to check, but I think that we're probably in the minority. Also, as younger (or all?) males tend to be emotionally underdeveloped in comparison with females of the same age, 17/26 is feasibly mentally equivalent. THAT said, I still enjoy a good cradle robbing!!

Just for a giggle, I searched technorati for "blackacre." DUDE! There are 20 bloggers as nerdy as me! I love the internet.

Some choice entries:

"I'm burnt out. I don't care who owns Blackacre. I don't care what the lesser included offenses of robbery are. I don't care who bears the risk of loss in a shipment contract. I don't care whether B or C or D is entitled to the rights of a holder in due course under the shelter doctrine."

"J: I want to burn down blackacre.
A: Only if I can take whiteacre out with it.
J: Ha ha
J: Let's conspire
A: Meanwhile, I say we kill "O," "A," "B" and any of their heirs.
J: Now does that merge into the substative crime of arson?
A: Who cares, they're dead and gone and we'll go to Buenos Aires and live like royalty!"

"maisnon17: I never, ever, ever want to hear about Blackacre
maisnon17: ever fucking again"

"who the hell is O and why can't he hold on to Blackacre????"

"I bought us all [Respondeat Superiors] T-shirts for good luck." This won't be funny to any non-lawyerly types, but the shirts say, "I own Blackacre."'

"Lastly, about Blackacre... where is blackacre? what does it look like? would i want to live there? is it nice? is it messy? all i can tell you is after a semester of hearing about Blackacre, while i'm very interested to know where it is and what it looks like, i know this much....i definitely don't want to OWN Blackacre b/c if i do something bad is bound to happen."

I am so sorry. This shit is cracking me up.

every step I take is part of my path
but none of my jokes seem to make me laugh.
sometimes you wanna put the past in the past
but every generation gets bit in the ass.

I wish I could write one great pop song with clever lyrics and a catchy chord progression.

It hurts me when a song that is absolutely perfect in terms of construction and songwriting sounds so freaking effortless, logical and simple. Why can't I do that? grrrrrrrrrr.

Let the sun set on this paper shade.
let me get some rest in this bed that I've made (it this far)
I've made it this far.
... just let me lower the bar.

The incredible awesomeness of the new Portastatic disc might actually compell me to go out and buy a bunch of Superchunk albums.

There’s a memory calling…
Calling way too loud and way too strong
Turning all the bad things into good
I’m a lucky guy now
But I never know it until it’s gone

Laura Terry.

What to say.

Every once and a while, when I am certain that my life has been bled of all spontaneity and adventure, a perfectly mundane day will blow me sideways.

The Flynn came over last night for cheap Chinese (food, not hookers) and cheap TV (reality shows, not PBS). The Flynn has gotten desperately hot with his faux hawk and oversized-art-school belt buckles, and although his androgyny constantly gets me to the wrong pronoun when talking about him, but he is very gracious about all of my “she” slips. But I digress. So cute Flynn and I grab Margaret and drive on over to Pei Wei, and after I insulted Flynn’s mother (I didn’t know she had Lyme’s Disease!), we still had plenty of fun laughing at minorities and the less fortunate. But we’re sitting in the parking lot, unbuckling the seat belts and making all of those lovely noises that come with getting out of a car, and Flynn says as an after-thought, “Oh guess who I talked to the other day? I can’t remember if you guys hated each other or not. Either way, I finally tracked down Laura Terry.”

And I pause in the car and am completely speechless.

“That’s impossible,” I finally reply. “She doesn’t exist on the internet, she never graduated from college, there is no paper trail. How did you find her?”
“Um, I was bored and called her mom. She’s staying with her parents.”

The idea that Laura Terry would be living with her parents in Dallas is equally unfathomable to me. There is nowhere in the world she hated more.

“So what happen to her?” I am determined to stay cool with this question.

“Um, well, she’s been in Ireland.”
Ireland?
“Yes Ireland. After she dropped out of Pratt, she went over and got a job at an art gallery in Ireland, then bummed around Europe for a while. She got sick or something, and now she’s back, though not for very long, resting up. We’re getting together Friday after her acupuncture session.”

I ask Flynn if I can tag along, but he doesn’t seem to thrilled about it. Still, three or four times during the evening I remind him, and tell him to call me, even though I know I’m intruding and I know Laura won’t want to see me.

Why do I care? I wish I knew. I am simply unable to control myself around this woman. I get reduced to the most infantile sort of sycophant. And I know most of her game is affected—I mean, the carefully chosen magical realism she reads, the obscure music she adores, the spinach dip, the acupuncture, the sally potter films, the smoking and the style of her art—it’s all calculated to make herself seem much more intriguing then she is. And yet and yet and yet. I wish I weren’t such a complete loser.

I am staring at my phone wondering if I should call Flynn. I could get Laura’s number and set up a date myself. I bet she’ll say no. I bet she still hates me. And yet, there is the phone.

Almost Boyfriend sent me flowers today. I put them down on the table and stared at them like some lost mother in a Cocteau film. I love flowers. Thank you.

oh my gosh - and MARY!! I think Stu and Michelle just broke up!!

My nipple is fucking ACHING! From now on, only North Americans, British and Scandanavians. That's all. period. forever. *UGH*

oh.my.goodness.gracious. !!!

And I mean that in the worst way possible! All of that talk about Latin lovers being so amazing is bullshit!! That was the most disgusting thing EVER!!! I feel like I've just been mauled by a pack of horny salamanders...

never in my life has a guy been SO BAD that I could not even bring myself to make-out with him, but this guy - - - a very nice person, yes, and fine to watch movies with, but - - - lizard-tongue = only (potentially) the right thing to do in a particular instance; in all other instances, the WRONG thing to do! Sliming your tongue ALL over a girl's face and spitting all over her ear = never a good thing. Opening your mouth SO WIDE that you may as well be trying to swallow her head = NEVER A GOOD THING. I swear I tried to find a way at least to enjoy a good make-out, but I'm afraid it was impossible. Even with the floppy hair and the Paul-Rudd-ness.

Which was very inconvenient for me. Never before in my life have I needed to ask someone to get off of me because I'm just not feeling it (or feeling it, but not really wanting to). This has never happened to me before. He is cute, but I am disgusted by him. I lay there and desperately tried to enjoy myself, but - - - - it was just super SUPER gross. I can't believe technique that poor has ever been with a female before. No girl in the world is into being mauled salamander-style. And the ill-timed lizard tongue...ugh, ugh, UGH! When he made a serious move very far south, I had to tell him to stop, and that I was going upstairs to bed.

And NOW I have to find the politest way possible to tell him that even when I was trying my hardest to imagine it was HaydenChristensen mauling me, or sexy Tim from work, it didn't work - and I TRIED - because it was SO VERY DISGUSTING!!!! So bad that I don't think it can even be improved significantly enough with practice for me not to be disgusted. And if you don't know what to do with a girl's mouth or chest, don't even try and make a move for areas which require advanced skill!

But I do so detest being impolite to people I'm not close to. And I've never been in a position to tell someone to please fuck off away from me before: I always get dumped or cheated on first. So I don't know what to say, and he's nice, and I like hanging out with him, but...*eew!* I'm just not into him in a sexual way...I gave it a go, and it was so disgusting that any chance that my mind might have been changed by brilliant skills is GONE!

And I am SOBER right now! *sober* Which is even worse, really. Because now I'll have to harbour the full memory of the disgustingness to which I have just been subjected. I just cannot BELIEVE that approach has EVER worked with a girl, any girl, anywhere in the world, EVER!!!!

Okay, but maybe, if I just lie, and say that I'm not ready for a physical relationship with anyone in Notts because I'm about to leave, and don't want to get attached...or that I have a boyfriend up in Scotland, and we agreed to an open relationship before I left for Notts, but that I just don't feel right being with someone else right before going back...or that I've just broken up with someone, and don't think I'm ready to get involved in a new physical relationship yet???

All fine lies. But I really need something, and I'm too nice to tell the truth. Boys - - what's the best way for me to do this??? Then again, he'll probably just assume that he was too much man for me (...but not really, if we're being honest...too little man, really) or that I'm actually a virgin who's never hooked up with anyone, or something which saves his pride. In which case, I can simply write him off as an asshole, and tell the truth??? My right nipple is SO SORE right now! There's good sucking and biting, and amazingly, horribly, painfully (literally) bad. I'm going to need an ice pack for my breast tomorrow!

*boo* I'd kinda been looking forward to having some accessible, non-committal hook-up material so close to home...but NO! I'll wait. And I do REALLY wonder how a 25-year-old Latin man can be that devastatingly BAD - - - how!?!?!?

I'm afraid I shall have to inform my dear mother that - having tried one last man for her sake - my decision to open my options once back in Edinburgh to include women seems all the more sensible...and justified.

An open Letter to Julia Jones:

Dear Julia,
You have been in Oxford, studying for three weeks and having your self-proclaimed Lizzy McGuire summer. I am happy things are going well, and you are not here watching mom and dad yell over whether or not dad can bring his golf clubs to the family vacation.

Reality TV misses you very much, especially "70's House", which never got to meet you. I hope you will come back soon and have a smuch fun with Reality TV as I do.

In one of your comments to my blog, you made some points, and then got very angry on the phone that I didn't address any of your points via the internet. You expressed dismay that I did not check my website enough, and you have also vented frustration about my failure to mention you by name in the blog. Allow me to take this time to deal with you and your concerns. In order to make this simple, I am italicizing your concerns.

a) who cares how many people read your website? it's just a website. i mean. pffff...
Well Julia, I care very much. You see, I have always believed that I am better than everyone else, and that as such, people have an obligation to listen to me. It doesn't matter if only 26 people know that--I want thousands of people every day to check this website and think, "wow--aren't Mary's asides witty and poignant? She is so much better than me!" Also, I really like the faux-feeling of community the internet provides. I like knowing that there is a chance that every time I say something I will be offending/alienating hundreds, possibly thousands of Americans at the same time. I want an Evvie Crowly debacle all over again. I want blood sweat and tears. The quality of my life has improved so much just from adding comments and a site meter. Hours to waste. You have no idea Napoleon.

b) last night i went to the greatest dance ever. and i danced with the boooyyyysss! what what!
Julia, you know very well that I do not give the "what! what!" freely. I will not do so here. Dancing with boys will not give you a "what! what!" If you call me up and are all, "Hey Mary, I just ran into Thom Yorke and he thinks I'm super fly, can I get a what what?" I'll be all "what! what!" in your grill. Till then, back up son. As for the dance, remember that nothing is open after eleven but your legs, and you're too young to be making babies. Also, boys lie. But enjoy the dance, get freaky, hopefully with some lovely Japanese or Cuban boys, and enjoy doing your groove thing. Or thang. Whichever.

c) any advice on the new essay topic "wherein lies the ability for objects to tell a story?" cause i definately have no idea what i'm doing.
This sounds like a movie thing. That's not really my thing, but what the heck--movies, books, it's all storytelling. Objects can't tell a narrative story, they can only allude to ideas. Therefore, the purpose of objects help tell the emotional story of a movie. So, let's say use "Don't Looki Now" as an example. The story in "Don't Look Now" is that a couple loses their little girl who was last seen in a red hood. They go to Venice when there's a serial killer loose. They keep seeing a red hood, and get obsessed with the idea that their daughter is still alive. Finally, they catch the little girl in red and she turns out to be not a little girl but a troll/midget thing and she stabs Donald Sutherland with scissors. Fin. Now, that's the story. But the object in the story is the red hood, which represents the couple's failure to keep their daughter alive, it represents their daughter, her death, fear, and uncertainty, as well as innocence lost. The story wouldn't have resonated emotionally if not for the red hood. And also, that was one creepy dwarf.

d) i'm definately having a lizzie mcguire adventure summer. you have NO IDEA.
You're right, because I never saw the Lizzie McGuire movie. I did however see some of "Mary Kate and Ashley's When In Rome", and if it's anything like that, way to go.

e) when are you guys going to flipping write me? i want letters! i've gotten four from my friends and none from the fam. what's up with that?
Unfortunately, you did not leave us your address, and by the time you did get around to leaving us your address, it was like, this Sunday, and you only have like a week left. But suffice to say, I miss you, you are wonderful, and Serge was very upset to have missed you as well.

f) i won't even bother bringing up the $$$ thing because i'll just be calling mom and dad today about it. i've got two weeks left and 198 dollars in my account.
You are perhaps the worst money manager of all time, and with margaret in the family, I do not even know how you wrested that crown away from her. What the heck is wrong with you? $1000 in like, 2.5 weeks? You have to learn that a budget means picking and choosing what things you can and can't have. You can't shop AND have lunch, for example. You can't buy tickets for the opera and buy a program for the opera. You can't buy snacks and treats. It means you have a certain amount of money a day, and if you want something that doesn't fit in that budget, guess what? you don't get to have it! Hate to be a downer, Jules, but that's the way it goes. I feel no pity that you have only $200 to survive until the end of the month. And also, mom and dad are hip to the jive--there's no ATM fee in Europe for American credit/debit cards, so what's up with that 7bps fee you were trying to lay? Nice try.

g) harry potter is the best thing since... sliced bread. but not the dance! nothing will ever ever beat that!
I beg to differ. Harry Potter beats the dance, because Harry Potter is awesome and won't get all sweaty and start groping you when it gets late.

h) how's serge?
fine

i) i miss you guys so much
Miss you too. For serious

j) he's from california.
Now Julia, you have a serious habit of falling for unavailable guys. Chances are, this guy is gay or a player. Be vigilant. Also, Californians are all hippie surer actor weirdos or serial killers. I'm not saying he is, but the law of averages isn't in your favor.

I hope your trip is awesome and you bring me back lots of OK! mags so I can see if Michelle and Stu from Big Brother 4 are married yet. And I need fresh Posh n' Becks photos. Come back and we'll guilt trip mom and dad into taking us to Fogo de Chao.

Love you,
Mary

I’ll admit, flying down someone you’ve met off of the internet to stay for a minibreak in your house sounds sketchy. Even in a day and age where internet dating has gained respectability (I tip my hat to you, e-harmony), asking a virtual friend to come stay still sounds riff with problems. But hey, I have a fairly good instinct with people (except the odd case that always comes up now and then. You know, like when you think you’re befriending an objectivist, atheist, libertarian death-metal fiend and it turns out you’ve been tricked into being friends with a Marxist bahai-leaning, jam-band loving hippie. But my batting average with people is fairly high, and I tend to admit when I’m wrong (like boy, was I wrong about Lakshmi, who ended up transmogrifying into one of the coolest people I know. After Adele. And Gideon Yago. Or not. Actually, I think Gideon Yago is a pussy).

Almost Boyfriend has the worst luck of anyone I know, which is odd, as his Karma should be amazing for all the charity he does. His shuttle to the airport was late, so he missed the 630 flight and was then pumped from stand-by on every flight to DFW between 630 and 1130. And when he finally did get a plane, it was delayed on the runway for an hour, and when he arrived in Dallas, the plane at the gate he was supposed to disembark on had mechanical trouble, so he had to wait on the tarmac before getting towed to a new gate, a total of 2 hours just sitting on a Texas runway. As a side note, when he left Tuesday evening, his plane was delayed 2 hours and he had to wait 30 minutes at Newark for a bus—also late.

Though he billed himself as 6’4”, Almost Boyfriend was in fact much shorter seeming—I would have guessed only 6’1” or 2.” He was dressed head-to-toe in corduroy, had long red hair down to his shoulder blades, an 8-inch beard, an amazingly small, rose-bud shaped mouth, and white blue, feline eyes. He was perhaps the most Russian-looking man I had ever seen, and was everything I had expected. I can’t say there was a lot of shock—it was pretty natural, not weird at all, as if I were picking up a cousin. Besides, he gave me a meat-stick, sort of like a slim jim but with cheese mixed in, and that is by far the surest way to get to my heart.

I had planned to take him and the family to 6 flags, but because of his flight delay, we had to scrap that idea, and instead went to dinner at Dos Charros. The family took to AB quite quickly, despite his shyness and reservation. In fact, most of the weekend was spent either sitting in the living room and talking, or eating Mexican. As Dallas hosts, that’s really all we can do. Sunday AB went to church, where of course I was bombarded as to questions of “relationship” definition, a rather odious and never-easy thing for me to define. After a Single Adult Potluck (we host a potluck once a week for all the spinsters—our one Single Adult Male has married out), we went up to my room and cuddled over Harry Potter. Bonnie came over and watched Celebrity Fit Club with me while AB and Dad argued theology. An excellent Sunday.

Monday and Tuesday were hard to fill as, well, I never do anything. At all. I mean, I could take him to a museum or something, but the dude is from New York, and it’s a little embarrassing to drag someone to our two museums and pretend that we’re a cultural city. Instead, I did what I always do when I’m not working—watch BBC and hang in my room. Only I had someone to make out with. A bit. Despite attempts to back out of former oaths that “kissing outside of dating isn’t right”, I more or less kept AB to his word. More or less. I definitely got some heat for it when Serge left—my family wasn’t to thrilled about me using a “minibreak-for-health” as an excuse to get some lovin’, but whatever. I was very wholesome and good. I am proud of myself.

The biggest surprise was being with a man who was so thoroughly a gentleman. He picked things up for me when I dropped them, opened doors, got me drinks. He even noticed details like the curve of my mouth and my profile. It was the most marvelous sense of being cared for, as if I was more than a convenience, but worthwhile as an investment. I’ve never felt that sort of attention before, even though it is something I always felt I deserved. And while, sadly, this trip did not change my feelings for AB into something deeper, it made me feel closer to him and more determined to help him through his life, as a friend if not a lover.

On a practical note, I didn’t actually take any pictures because we didn’t actually do anything, and AB has this thing about internet anonymity. So sorry. If I had, there’d be a ton of photos of us eating chips, or in the car, or watching TV. Excitement all around.

Tonight: Flynn and “Brat Camp.” Yesssss. I asked Flynn about the Iron and Wine show. The response? “We saw him coming out of a Cuban restaurant before the show. He had a marvelous beard. We asked if he had tapas, and he said yes, and we squealed like little children.”

Theron-nigga please. The terrorists can bring the jihad to my front door. I got guns and rocks and stuff. Just don’t be messing with my money. We can’t run an economy on bartering chickens. That’s what makes America great. U-S-A! U-S-A!

Let me rave a minute about my Friday, as the rest of my weekend involves tales of meeting Almost Boyfriend, too numerous for discussion during working hours. First of all, “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” was everything I wanted it to be and more. It’s the first movie that has come out all summer that I actually left the theater thinking, “oh man, I need to see this again! What excuse can I manufacture? Who may I drag?” (the answer to both questions materialized in the form of Almost Boyfriend). It had the sweetest, most uplifting message, was dark in just the right ways, wasn’t too adult, wasn’t too cynical, was creative and unexpected enough to truly be engaging. I loved it. Of course, I was obsessed with the first one, so I went in with fairly high expectations, but dangit. What would I do without Tim Burton? And now the “Corpse Bride”?! The people have been crying out for a new stop-action film, and the people have been heard. Interestingly enough, I noticed there will be an “Ice Age 2” and a new, Kiera Knightly-infested version of “Pride and Prejudice.” I don’t recall anyone asking for those films. I mean, what Studio Exec is sitting around thinking, “The world MUST have more Jon Leguizamo.” And “Pride and Prejudice”? Hasn’t A&E already crafted the most immaculate version possible? Why ruin it with old under-bite-pirate-girl? That’s just my feeling on it, anyway.

I also spent my Friday going to the midnight Harry Potter opening with Angela. This taught me two lessons:
1) Never take little children to a midnight opening of anything
2) Never go to a midnight opening at Borders
My brother and sister get paradoxically more and more hyper the later they stay up and the sleepier they get, which culminates in them all of a sudden crashing on a surface and sleeping. Friday was no exception. The costumes were great—everyone dressed up and there was face painting and coloring and raffles, but Zach and Jordan began to make more demands and get more out of control, and by the time midnight rolled around they were rolling as well—on the floor, into books, into customers. I think they broke off a plastic wall bracket somewhere. Angela was smart and preordered, so she was number 142 in line, while I was number 1305. Needless to say, I leeched off of her forthought, but even having Angela buy a copy for me, I still got out at 12:20 and didn’t have the kids in bed until 1. And then of course I stayed up until 4 tearing my way through the first 150 pages of “The Half Blood Prince.” Gosh I love Harry Potter.

nerd alert

Best line from post-property-exam drinking: (in a discussion of people's vacation plans for the summer.)

"James and I are taking a road trip to Kentucky to try to find Blackacre."

I about died.

super-nerd alert

O conveys, "to A so long as there is no oil drilling on the property, but if there is oil drilling to B and his heirs."
What is the state of the title?

this is my guess as to what happens:
A has fee simple determinable
O has a possibility of reverter.
The conveyance to B violates the common law rule against perpetuities, so his interest is void.

What if O dies and A dies and A's heirs allow oil drilling? Do O's heirs get a reverter, or does the condition only apply to A, and not his heirs? Do A's heirs just get fee simple absolute?

These are the dilemmas that occupy my mind. The fact that I still don't know this AFTER the test is really frustrating.

Would it change anything if this was the conveyance?
O conveys, "to A and his heirs for as long as there is no oil drilling, otherwise to B."

You know what? I hate property and yet I can't stop thinking and talking about it. It's just a bunch of rich people trying to control things and writing crummy wills and conveyances and then the other rich people getting mad and hiring lawyers to figure it out. boo.

Also: everyone should be reading Judge Posner's blog. Oh my gosh do I love that guy. (Posner's the cute one with the glasses!)

On the substance-abuse front: Thursday's debacle was so severe that I didn't drink at all on Friday or Saturday -- and I only had one glass of wine with dinner last night. Smoking-wise -- only one on friday, none on saturday, and one yesterday. Send cookies and accolades to my attention.

This weekend, I mostly studied and lazed around. Lakshmi and I jammed on some new music Friday night, and I talked to David W. on the phone. Both of those were pretty cool. Saturday I finished three of my "paintings." They're OK. Could be better. Went to the eye doctor, who explained the massive issues I am having with my eyes. It was fascinating and completely disgusting. I got new contacts. They are just as uncomfortable as the old ones. Sunday, I surfed around Jason Mulgrew's site. I laughed my ass off at this. Like many things that eventually piss me off, it's funny from a distance. And then I studied the rest of the day. Joel and I went out to dinner and a movie last night and talked a lot. It was really nice.

Now I'm drinking massive amounts of coffee and freaking out about this. This is the most exciting/ scary thing to happen to torts like, ever. god I am a nerd.

yesterday is unrecountable. both because it was horrifying and because I don't necessarily remember everything. wow.

um. nothing else. i feel really disgusted at many things. mostly myself. and everyone I know. but myself mostly. and i feel deeply afraid of some of the stuff lurking inside me. i make myself such a freakish mess sometimes. i really hate that. i need to quit drinking.

i can't let myself have these kinds of meltdowns. i don't like myself when i'm like this. it hurts me professionally, socially and in my academic career. i need to stop. ugh.

As the past few days have been incredibly slow vis-à-vis the market, I’ve had the time and resources to catch up on EVERY SINGLE ENTRY on jasonmulgrew.com. I have never actually followed anyone’s website with that degree of fascination, and I have to say—now that the train wreck is over, I feel really dirty. Not dirty in a Christina-aguilera-I’m-coming-for-your-boyfriend way, but dirty in a i-kind-of-never-want to masturbate again-and also-I’m-thinking-of-becoming-amish way. The website is just a non-stop barrage of sex and drugs and misogynism punctuated with drunken vomiting and descriptions of late night food binges. And while all this is entertaining, it has lowered my opinion of a) men and b) the human race to such levels that I’m thinking of becoming one of those people that build fires in subway tunnels. No, not the homeless-molemen.

With the barrage of movies, reality TV, and horrible websites I visit (bizarremag.com being a regular), I’m starting to feel all slimey and repulsive. I’m finding myself less annoyed by my decision of (seemingly perpetual) pre-marital virginity, and actually sort of glad that I don’t have to be part of all the muck and the perversion that people drag into sex. And this coming from someone who looks fondly on the bdsm community. I’m also kind of put off to profanity and jarringly crude conversation—I’m becoming more sensitive, rather than less. I don’t know, that blog man—it just represents everything I hate about humans—operating without any sort of structure of virtue or morality, a subjective sort of life where every desire must be pandered too immediately and there is no sort of moral consistency or reason. I’m not trying to pander when I say this, but I don’t feel that my moral framework should be applied to everyone. I’d be bored if all my friends were clean speaking, clean living virgins, but I’d also be bored and annoyed if everyone did what felt good, and that was all the logic that went behind it. I do know it’s made me want to unplug and read 19th century literature all day. But I hate myself, and such a desire would be something good for me, and therefore is right out.

But one of the things that did impress me about Mr. Mulgrew were two things—a) a hit counter is an awesome thing and b) how can one bring in a million hits a month?

I don’t know if blogger even has counters available, or if there is anyway of seeing how many readers/visitors we get a month, and wear from, but now I’m all curious. Adele, what’s the verdict? Is such a thing possible? Because as things are, I’m guessing we have roughly the following readers:
-Us 3 (mary anne adele)
-Lakshmi
-The
-Mark
-Almost boyfriend
-Nickd
-Those 3 (falafel trio)
-The three daves
- My sister Julia
-Adele’s brother and sister
-Hester
-Bonnie
So that’s what, like 20 people? That’s pathetic. I want millions. I want frickin’ Rosie O’ Donnell kind of traffic where we have 300 people commenting on every retarded post. What do I have to do? Shave my head, get an ugly girlfriend and a broadway flop and adopt some of the ugliest kids known to man? For serious, what does a nigga have to do to get some hits? And no, I won’t post semi-nude photos of myself in various costumes with my roommate of dubious nationality and then get offended when people call me out on them. No, no tricks here.

Just when I thought my Wednesdays were empty and meaningless, CBS gave me a new reality show to fill the void in between Clean House and Lost: Brat Camp. It’s like crack for your moral compass. Kids that have commited such crimes as “rebellious punk”, “sullen outcast”, “violent temper”, and “tried to stab twin” (my favorite) are sent into the wilderness to be given tough love by hippies with such names as Mountain Wind and Little Big Bear. They sleep in teepees, endure hikes and grueling ritual in order to create character and discipline. Now this is all fine, and the show means well, but I have to wonder as to the effectiveness of such programming. Yes, I was a bad, fat child, and yes I was shipped to a similar tough love-camp (albeit in Switzerland with other equally over-privileged overachievers) where I became a good, thin child. But I also never returned to my excercising ways. I never again kept to a rigid schedule and learned to eat properly and do my work on time. What it taught me was crisis management, compartementalization of feelings, and the importance of social conformity (not so terrible thing as one would imagine). But maybe, that’s just what young heather needs to keep from running away, or what baby Derreck needs to keep him from failing out of school. Either way, good stuff.

Tomorrow will be such an awesome day I can hardly stand it. New Tim Burton movie + New Harry Potter book? I shall melt with anticipation right now. This is what my life has become. I desperately need to get laid.

As for not becoming like your parents Adele, that’s a tough one, because I desperately want to be my parents, as they are perhaps the coolest people alive. I mean, my mom just bought my brother a pair of jeans with Tupac’s face emblazoned on the cover, and my father bought me a “Who is John Galt?” t-shirt. Plus, they have the most idealistic marriage when it comes to love and sex—yes, they fight all the time, but they still are totally into each other physically and still have about the same amount of sex as they did when they were 25. I guess most people get grossed out at the idea of parents being intimate, but for me, I get so many people trying to tell me that sex after marriage is awful and adultery is inevitable that my parents are sort of my platonic ideal.

There are a few things that tick me off though—my dad is pretty close minded politically and culturally, so I’ve gone to the opposite end of the spectrum and really tried to learn and be respectful of EVERYTHING. Which is funny, as I don’t consider tolerance a virtue and am pretty dismissive of most people’s opinions (much to Mark’s disdain). Still, greeting every new thing/idea/person/lifestyle warmly upon introduction is something I have to do consciously, not naturally, so I think in many ways, avoiding being separate from your parents (in the arenas you want to be) requires constant vigilance. I know you love most things about your parents too, so the trick is isolation, study, and conscious avoidance. Besides, after 6 months, and practice becomes a habit.

I'm fragile, like an eggshell. I'm mad as hell.

Anyone know how to slow or stop the process of turning into one's parents?

you know, adele can be tough sometimes.

Apparently, my dad said this to my new boyfriend while I was in the bathroom. -- My father warned someone I was dating about me. -- It doesn't particularly bother me; "tough" isn't too negative a descriptor, and is probably a pretty accurate one. It's a word I've heard my dad use to describe my mom many times. So he doesn't think being a "tough woman" is a bad thing. But still. Am I really all that scary?

I hope so.

Do I hate terrorists? Sure. Not only do they try and drag down decent civilizations to their lowly, pre-industrial filth, but they cost me $200 in a choppy, post-London bombing. That sort of one-day loss cripples my self-esteem and makes me unable to have the confidence to do the trades I need to do. In the face of irrational fear and panic that I may never master this craft and may never move out of dallas (it’s been a year! A bloody year!), I’ve become increasingly lackluster in my motivation to do or see anything outside the house.

I am having trouble fitting into the fat-pants area of my closet, which is an experience awash in humiliation and self-loathing. I can see you all now, asking yourself why I can’t just say no to that extra sandwich or the fifty cans of coke, and the truth is, because I’m depressed and have no one to look good for. Mom has put in a formal request that all t-shirts I wear when leaving the house should be a size XL or above, as form skimming clothing is starting to look obscene. Not in the sense that I am spilling out or the outline of my bra is visible, rather the sheer volume of breast tissue is becoming a distraction. I love it—I have devolved from hourglass to obscenely crass in a few short months. It’s true though—I’m like a smaller, less sexy anna nichole smith. I wish this fate on no one. It certainly can’t help that I work all week only to spend my weekends passed out in front of my parents bed grasping a box of Flips (hurray for tom thumb for restocking them!) and a large McDonald’s coke in either fist.

In lieu of my lack of proper motivation, I have discovered quite a few new (highly addictive) TV programs. This is my weekly lineup of REALITY shows, not even all the shows I watch:
(BBC)
Cash in the Attic (m-f)
Bargain Hunt (m-f)
Changing Rooms (m-f)
House Doctor (m-th)
House Invaders (m-f)
What not to wear (f)
Ramsey’s kitchen nightmares (t)
Ground force (sat)
Second sight (mon)
I’m alan partridge (sat)

(lifetime)
How clean is your house? (m)

(Fox)
Hell’s kitchen (m)

(VH1)
Celebrity Fit Club 2 (mon)
Best Week ever (f)
I Love the 70’s/80’s/90’s (sat/sun)
Kept (th)
Strip Search (th)
American’s Next Top Model (when on)

(MTV)
The Real World Austin (when on)
70’s House (Tuesday)
Jackass (m-f)
Viva La Bam (f)

(E!)
The Soup (f)

(Style)
Clean House (m-f)
Style Court (m-f)
How do I look? (m-f)

(Comedy Central)
Daily Show (m-th)
Reno 911! (faux reality) (t)

Bravo
Queer Eye (th)
Blow Out (th)
Project Runway (when on)

PBS
Antiques Roadshow (f)
Life’s Laundry (f)

This doesn’t even go into misc. movies, my secret addiction to Cartoon Network’s adult swim, or my love affair with Alias and Lost reruns. And it’s not as if I don’t have all of these ideas for books stories paintings graphic novels etc—things that are much more rewarding than TV—it’s just until I get back on track with trading, I am in what my mother calls a shame spiral.

Plus, I’ve learned that my favorite online personality—Alistair Appleton—is gay, thus striking a horrid blow to me. Why does this matter? Well, when someone sees a beautiful, well groomed, well dressed, educated erudite and charming man, one says “Aha! Mankind is not devoid of beauty subtly and understanding! Look, here is such a man!” and then to find out he’s gay it’s such a blow, as if saying, “aha! Such beauty is not for you”. It’s like a reaffirmation that women are not worth putting in the effort for. We are not worth the time it takes to clean up, dress well, speak with politesse. Such refinements are meant for the enjoyment of men, not of women. Seeing glorious gay men like Rufis Wainwright, Alistair, or Rupert Everett is another reminder of how patheticly immature most men are. And obviously there are plenty of lovely heterosexual men, and plenty of hideously banal homosexual men, but I still can’t help but wish that most men would aim a little higher in their accomplishments. I mean, as of now, I'm no prize, but plenty of women are, and deserve better.

My almost-boyfriend is coming down this Saturday. He’s pretty nervous, as his meeting with my cousin wasn’t exactly a success, and the only objective feedback he has heard concerning the Jones family is that we’re loud. But I think, more or less, being with a family and regular meals for a weekend will be good for him, and I’ll be sure to supply you all with pictures of our exploits, should we end up taking him to an amusement park.

past couple of days went like this:

Hit up Lakshmi's coffee shop on Sunday afternoon for a latte and some studying, and gawking at her hipster extraordinare new boyfriend thing. Laks looked happy. So did the boy.

When I got home, I made some really good chicken sandwiches with Sandra (my roommate), and watched Before Sunset again. Sandra and I laughed a lot at the things Julie D.'s character says. "Everyone of my exes is now married! They call me up months later, thanking me for teaching them what love is and how to respect women! Why didn't they ask me to marry them? I would have said, 'no' but at least they could have asked."

Worked on some "paintings" for the walls of my apartment. Um, yes. My artistic skills are sorely lacking. But these look pretty good. (Sandra says, "at least they'll wake us up in the morning.") I'll take some pictures when I'm done.

While painting away, I got a phone call from Joel asking me to drive over to Pequod's with jumper cables for The Castanet's and I Heart Lung's van. These California refugees were staying on Joel's floor as they passed through Chicago on their 30-day tour. There was something slightly poetic about the band van breaking down on the corner of Webster and Clybourn an hour before soundcheck. So I gave them a jump (success!) and they headed off to the Empty Bottle.

Then, of course, we hit up the Bottle that evening for a great little rock show. The Castanets were OK, a little pretentious. I Heart Lung was really quirky and creative. The opener, Wooden Wand and The Vanishing Voice were good. Slow, weird folky music. Obviously on a lot of drugs.

The bands came back to 1423 and crashed everywhere.

Last night, my door buzzer rings. Apparently, the van overheated and shut down at Irving Park and Halsted. The Castanets jumped on a bus to the next show. So I Heart Lung walked all the way to my place (about 5 miles down less-than-picturesque Ashland Ave.) because they couldn't get in touch with Joel, and I was the only other person they knew in Chicago.

It made for an interesting evening. (interesting in a good way, not a scary one.)

Then, Joel resurfaced and I went to bed.

Which brings me to the present.

I am listening to the SoImpossibleEP right now.

I had salmon and asparagus with hollandaise(sp?) sauce last night for dinner, and it was very good.

There is a cute Spanish-speaking guy on the ground floor of this building, but none of us know his name, or where he's from...and now we've spoken to him too much to suddenly ask him what his name and origin are. He looks A LOT like PaulRudd. So who cares what his name is, eh?! Wish I'd realized there was a great-looking guy in MeltonHall before July. No point hooking up with someone for six weeks, though...not on top of job and dissertation and everything else. Plus, I need not to get attached to anything at this point. I'm too close to being free of this place to let myself get caught up in it.

Still, it'd be nice to have another body in the bed...a big strong man to do spider checks (and killings, if necessary) for me. Plus, he has nice hair. I think I have a bit of a crush now. Which sucks, because now I'll have to start making a bit of an effort where my appearance is concerned...and not walk around in ratty t-shirts and pajama pants as soon as I get home from work. :-/

picking up the habit too long before four
when July is gone, I'll be 24

I went to the beach today. I wore a bikini, which is something that as recently as last year I would not have dreamed of doing. (Actually, it still horrifies me pretty thoroughly, but not paralyzingly so.) My stomach is kind of sunburned-- it's never seen the light of day before.

Life is kind of marvelous. I mean marvelous exactly -- something at which I marvel.

Anyway, I'm off to a party and some other activities.

Those bastards in the NottinghamUniversityBusinessSchool bureaucracy have just rejected/foiled my THIRD attempt at a dissertation topic...they're just running me in email circles now, and I'm starting to get a bit miffed...I've just drafted an aggressive email to the woman in charge of dissertation topics & supervisors, which is a pretty serious show of displeasure coming from me.

But I don't think I'll send it. I've no problem boiling with rage on the inside, but I have to be comfortable with people - or boiling over with rage on the inside - before I can boil with rage at anyone on the outside. Or even raise my voice...

Also, one of the only BB6 housemates I appreciate was just surprise evicted, leaving my least favourite housemate - a semi-human bellower from the Leeds ghetto - still in the house. I think I'm going to get a life now, and just stop watching. If the people watching this show with me approve of the antics of that sort of societal rubbish, then this isn't the type of show I want to be watching. I'm a Tory at heart. And BB6 + job are keeping me from my cross-trainer, and becoming an ever-greater strain on my trousers.

And Kathleen?? If you read this, have you heard from Ryan? I texted him yesterday night after I got back from work, but he still hasn't responded. I just called my dad, and he says they haven't heard anything bad in AH...but still. I'd feel better if I knew Dinkle were in Chicago or Europe or safe in his abomination of a dorm right now, and not lying in a hospital or a morgue somewhere in London. Thanks.

Yesterday night, when I turned my pillow over as I got into bed, there was a medium-sized black spider hiding underneath it. We were equally afraid of each other, and it took me five minutes to muster the courage to kill it. My other choice was to grab my duvet and run shrieking to Rebecca's room and just sleep on her floor until the next morning, when I would return to my room with gallons of Raid. Got to bed late because, after killing the first spider, I was convinced that dozens more were waiting for me in and around my bed. So I had to do a thorough search...twice. I HATE SPIDERS!! They are never more afraid of me than I am of them. Next year, every window and outer door in my property will have a screen, and I will take pains regularly to attack every corner and gap and storage space and lighting fixture with a powerful vacuum cleaner...and the occasional spritz of Raid. I will not share my living space with spideys!! I don't go crawling around their webs and stealing their bugs, so I don't think they have any business crawling around my bed and stealing my sleep!!!

Ummm. Here is a cute picture to distract you from the craziness of the world.

Lakshmi, don't think I won't totally knock you out just 'cause you're sick.

Wow. This world is irrevokably messed up.

“I just want to make an omelet!”

There’s something about Gieco ads that is reaffirming my faith in American advertisement. Tiny House. The Cavemen. Tony Little—you can do it. They are all brilliant. So brilliant, in fact, that I’m trying to find a place where I can download them. So far, no luck. So if someone up there wants to hook me up, I owe you one.

Yeah, I realize the absurdity of posting an entire post about how I resolve to post daily and then fail to post in a week. In my defense though, things have been busy. I have relatives visiting, Margaret’s back at home, it was the 4th of July, and I’m ticked off at the market, so I haven’t been trading. Bad trading + mary = surly, angry mary. The kind of mary that demands to be given the remote at all times and refuses to RSVP to her friends Lingerie Bridal Showers and uses phrases like, “I don’t come over to where you work and slap the dick out of your mouth.” Yep, sometimes I can be a real treasure.

This past week has been mostly good as far as my mood goes. My dad’s center has opened to spectacular success—in the first two days we’re doing amazing business, which is such a godsend, I feel especially blessed. Margaret’s return means the return of The Funniest Person I Know, as well as a return to order, as she is the only human who actually helps me clean the house and discipline the children. I had too lovely talks with two lovely boys—Mark and Serge, who alternately helped me in there own ways salvage some semblance of respect for the male species. My dad has been walking around the house, “Atlas Shrugged” in hand, sporting a “Who is John Galt?” shirt. “Kept” and “Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmare” are both raising the bar on reality TV. I had a dream about Billy Corgan. The strange boil on my chin has finally decided to die down. Mary South turned out to surprise me by becoming, like a phoenix reborn, the most startling display of strength and reason in the face of severe persecution. Shame about that medicine hang up, or she’d be perfect and then I’d have to die. As she is now, she might be my NYC roommate, and that has me dreaming of Bollywood wall hangings and Bengal cats.

Speaking of, I need to see the new Sharukh Kahn movie. Who’s with me? Anyone? Bueller?

On sadder news, Julia is in Oxford and feeling the pain that only comes with expecting to hang out with Alloy models and instead finding oneself magically transported to an Abercrombie and Finch photo shoot. Not an indie-rocker to be found, and now she’s crying and homesick. When we dropped her off at the airport, my old history of art/music teacher was in the same line as we were, seeing his son off to Berlin. The son was hot—Sean Lennon meets Thom from Keane. He looked a bit like a hippy though—no dice.

Also in tragic news, saw “War of the Worlds” and if you haven’t, I’m going to ruin it for you. HG Wells—genius. Having the aliens die of bacteria: genius. Spielberg pacing the film to make the bacteria attack seem unpredictable and jarring: interesting. Logical fallacies? Horrendous. Rather than follow Wells and have the attack be sudden, Spielberg decided that the aliens have been under the ground for millions of years. Which then raises some of the following conundrums:
1) Why not take over the world then when there were no humans?
2) Why had a culture that had invented matter-dissolving lasers developed immunization?
3) Why had a culture who had been watching us for millions of years not learned about bacteria?
4) What was up with the blood-ivy?
5) Why was Boston’s Brown-brick district saved while New Jersey suburbs lay in ruins?
6) If tom cruise knew so much about engines, and he knew enough to tell a mechanic to fix the car he later stole, then why not fix another car after the angry mom takes his?
7) Why would a superior race of aliens be so unresourceful as to check a smoldering basement three separate times to sweep for survivors?

I found myself so distracted by these points, I was put off by what was a very promising movie. I hated the fact that huge sections, the most obvious being the whole blood-ivy, human blood-fertilizer thing, were never explained, that I was supposed to shut up and enjoy all the big explosions and special effects that were interchangeable with (the far superior) “AI.” Yes it’s true, you can never go broke under estimating the American public, but really, couldn’t Spielberg have thrown a bone to the poor saps who wanted to think and not just be entertained? GAY. Thumbs down, man.

And the 4th. My family chose to spend it in our usual way: Brazilian steak (Fogo de Chao), British TV (BBCa), and lighting illegal fireworks with a gang of black and hispanic families. We set the grass on fire. America, f-yeah.

Dave Choate has a new blog.

People in my neighborhood are extremely patriotic. My street turned into a war zone of fireworks for hours upon hours last night. America, fuck yeah!

Anyone else patently terrified by Sandra Day O'Connor's retirement? I mean, let's be real, Rhenquist is going to kick it sooner or later (probably sooner), which means Bush will be trying his darndest to appoint TWO CRAZY FUCKING IDEOLOGUES to the High Court. This could turn back the clock on social progress for decades in some very scary ways. Don't forget, these guys get LIFE appointments.

I thought John Kerry was lame, but this is why I voted for him. Because a Supreme Court full of looneys can do us a lot more harm over their whole lifetimes than a jerky president can do in four measly years.

Of the nominee names that are getting tossed about, I am least scared of Alberto Gonzales. He's pretty conservative, but not a hardliner like say Michael McConnell or Samuel Alito. Those guys are freaks that need to get off the bench. Anayway, if I had my way, I'd go Posner all the way. However, given that the man is older than dirt, he has no chance whatsoever of getting nominated. Guess he'll just have to settle for being the rockstar of the federal judiciary.

So I'm strolling up the street through Radford toward home, and a couple of massive (v.ugly) black men are standing on the sidewalk in front of a shop. As I pass them, one of the men - the one sporting a gold tooth and filthy dreads, one of which reached down to his knees - starts to try and get my attention. I wasn't in a bad mood, and they actually looked like they might be asking for directions, so I half-turned once I had passed them and took one of my headphones out of my ear.

The man with gold tooth/filthy dreads stares at me for a moment in surprise, then asks: "uhhh - are you a model?" I didn't even bother to respond. Just rolled my eyes up as high as they could go and gave him a "gimme a break, asshole" look as I turned back and replaced the headphone. Seriously - has that line ever worked for ANYONE?!

As I walked on, it occurred to me that I really ought to have taken advantage of the opportunity to be sarcastic, as being sarcastic is something which I so enjoy..."That's right, filthylocks! I am a model - a 5'6", 140 pound model, with acne, yellow teeth, and a mass of scar & stitches across her back." Honestly, though...what could I viably model? I suppose I could be the before picture for an acne cream, a tooth-whitener, or a scar-minimizer. Or the before body for one of those "lose ten pounds in two weeks, then look great on the beach!" weight-loss programmes.

And I was so nervous about my little surgery that my period came a week early AGAIN, despite my having been on the Pill for over a year and a half!! And someone I liked was voted out of the BigBrother house...and the people who I don't like have the shortest odds to win. *sigh* But I sold - through sheer luck, of course...two customers called up and essentially said "hey, can you sign me up for that boiler insurance you offer" - two boiler insurance policies at work yesterday, so now I get 35GBP (~$62) worth of vouchers in addition to my normal pay next week. *hooray!* I'd never sold enough to get vouchers before. Maybe it was the codeine?

And I've just noticed that the dollar has ever-so-slightly risen against the pound, after ages stuck around .54 pounds to the dollar. I'm assuming this is a short-lived reponse to US interest rates having just been raised to 3.25%?? And I'm not sure if that's good or bad for me anymore...may not matter all that much, since my bonds remain in dollars which I will be using solely in the US. Or maybe good, since my parents are still giving me handouts in dollars, which I have to convert into pounds. Or maybe bad, because there's complementary speculation that the UK will soon be lowering its rates...

My favourite track on Hail to the Thief is "Wolf at the Door".

we're a bunch of aliens.

We sometimes play a not-so-great show. But man are we cute.

After I read this article, I wasnt sure to laugh at the brilliance of a private developer, or cry at the horrible judge approving communist-style property seizure:

Supreme Court justice faces boot from home?
Developer wants 'Lost Liberty Hotel' built upon property of David Souter

A private developer contacted the local government in Supreme Court Justice David Souter's hometown in New Hampshire yesterday asking that the property of the judge – who voted in favor of a controversial decision allowing a city to take residents' homes for private development – be seized to make room for a new hotel.

Logan Darrow Clements faxed a request to Chip Meany, the code enforcement officer of the town of Weare, N.H., seeking to start the application process to build a hotel on 34 Cilley Hill Road, the present location of Souter's home.

Wrote Clements: "Although this property is owned by an individual, David H. Souter, a recent Supreme Court decision, Kelo v. City of New London, clears the way for this land to be taken by the government of Weare through eminent domain and given to my LLC for the purposes of building a hotel. The justification for such an eminent domain action is that our hotel will better serve the public interest as it will bring in economic development and higher tax revenue to Weare."

The Kelo v. City of New London decision, handed down Thursday, allows the New London, Conn., government to seize the homes and businesses of residents to facilitate the building of an office complex that would provide economic benefits to the area and more tax revenue to the city. Though the practice of eminent domain is provided for in the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution, this case is significant because the seizure is for private development and not for "public use," such as a highway or bridge. The decision has been roundly criticized by property-rights activists and limited-government commentators.

According to a statement from Clements, the proposed development, called "The Lost Liberty Hotel" will feature the "Just Desserts Café" and include a museum, open to the public, "featuring a permanent exhibit on the loss of freedom in America." Instead of a Gideon's Bible in each room, guests will receive a free copy of Ayn Rand's novel "Atlas Shrugged," the statement said.

Clements says the hotel must be built on this particular piece of land because it is a unique site – "being the home of someone largely responsible for destroying property rights for all Americans."

Souter has claimed Weare as his home since he moved there as an 11-year-old boy with his family.

"This is not a prank" said Clements. "The town of Weare has five people on the Board of Selectmen. If three of them vote to use the power of eminent domain to take this land from Mr. Souter we can begin our hotel development."

Clements says his plan is to raise investment capital from wealthy pro-liberty investors and draw up architectural plans. These plans would then be used to raise additional capital for the project.

While Clements currently makes a living in marketing and video production, he tells WND he has had involvement in real estate development and is fully committed to the project.

"We will build a hotel there if investors come forward, definitely," he said.

'Twas by all accounts, a terrible show last night. The sound was bad, and we were overheated and tired. A shame, really, because we had such a nice group of supporters out to see us. The guys who played after us were straight out of 1992. In a bad way. Some ... ahem ... of our fans almost got in a rumble with their fans. Their fans were all hippies though, so our fans could have totally kicked their asses.

Work makes me want to hide under the covers and never ever come out right now. Exhausting.

School is good though. Property agrees with me like contracts and it's comforting to know that most of the class is confused beyond belief. That wasn't meant to sound as snotty as it did. But you know -- mandatory curve! If I understand the basics and nothing else, and everyone else is screwing up the basics, I get an A.

The other night I recorded a cover of Glen Campbell's "Once A Day" that turned out really good. I will post it sometime. Maybe over the weekend.